


Pondered in Silence

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Comfort/Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1898256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson asks a question and faces questions of his own. Written for JWP #4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pondered in Silence

**Author's Note:**

> JWP #4: Excerpt from Song of the Banner at Daybreak, by Walt Whitman:
> 
> Words! book-words! what are you?  
> Words no more, for hearken and see,  
> My song is there in the open air—and I must sing,  
> With the banner and pennant a-flapping.

 

“I have told you time and again, Watson, I have no interest in being subject-matter for more of your romanticized tales.” Holmes’ voice was sharp with irritation, and I winced. I had reluctantly decided to voice the idea only after much pressing from my publisher, but now I wished I’d stayed with my first instinct and simply let the matter be. Ever since his return, Holmes had been adamant about my ceasing to publish accounts of his cases.

“Very well, Holmes, I - ” I began, but Holmes went on, overriding my acquiescence with the flow of his temper.

“It is not as if I need the publicity, after all; there’s been no lack of interesting cases, and neither of us is in need of funds, as we once were. I can only assume you’ve got that infernal ‘itch’ in your fingers. May I suggest that if you must write, you turn your attention to memorializing some of your own adventures?”

My breath caught. Holmes was hardly the first person to suggest this, but somehow the words were harder to hear coming from his lips.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t considered it myself. There was always a market for military reminiscences, even from those with such brief service records as myself. And of course my involvement, however minor, in one of the most ill-fated battles in recent memory would probably triple the worth of anything I chose to publish.

But I could not do it. Not even for my own, private records, much less a public account. Every time I tried to set ink to paper to record anything more than the very brief details I set forth in A Study in Scarlet, my mind froze, and all I could taste was blood and dust in my mouth. Words – what were they in the face of what I had seen? They could not carry the true reality of war, or reconcile the patriotic portion of my mind that recognized the necessity of battle and soldiers to fight them, and the veteran’s part of my soul, who knew from bitter experience that there were no winners in combat except Chaos, Ruin, and Death.

I could no more write a banner-flying account of an army doctor’s life than I could scribe a survivor’s testimony to horror. I would loose neither upon the world, though both might be equally true.

I cleared my throat and answered Holmes’ querulous demand the only way I could. “Even if I could find the words for that, Holmes, I would write nothing anyone would want to read.” I rose from my chair, intending to retire to the quiet of my room.

A touch of Holmes’ hand on my wrist stopped me before I could walk two paces. I looked up met my friend’s penetrating gaze. As always, he was able to read me easily, and possibly even more than that. Perhaps he could see the words I could never manage to form, the ones buzzing in my head even now, like flies over the fallen. He bit his lip. “My dear fellow, that was unforgivably stupid of me. I apologize.”

I shrugged. “It was a logical suggestion.”

“For others, perhaps, but not for you, and certainly not from me.” His hand dropped away, but his eyes remained fixed on mine. He sighed. “If ever I wish to see my cases in print again, Watson, I promise you that you will be the only one to write them. It’s just – I cannot bear it, not just yet.”

My own disquiet was instantly forgotten in the face of this rare glimpse of my friend’s own vulnerabilities. “Of course, Holmes. I understand.”

He nodded. “I know you do, Watson. I know.” The moment passed, and Holmes’ usual imperturbable mask settled over his features. “Now then, what do you feel about dinner at Simpsons? I believe we could both do with a change of fare, and there’s a concert this evening that promises to be worth our time.”

I smiled, accepting the proposal – and the apology. “That sounds delightful.”


End file.
